


Metallic Taste

by ftricah



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, Ludendorff, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:00:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27736489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftricah/pseuds/ftricah
Summary: AU, in which Michael died during the robbery in Ludendorff.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9





	Metallic Taste

* * *

...And again the whole body is pierced by an unpleasant shiver, either from the cold, or from dislike for everything that is happening around. He lies staring at the ceiling, absolutely motionless. The small and therefore cheap Motel room is littered with steers, beer bottles, and other non-certified alcohol purchased at a discount in the only liquor store in a small Northern town. Despite the fact that it is only November, a Blizzard is already howling outside the window and this disgusting, cold wind that chills to the very bones hits the windows again and again, making a characteristic sound. The sky is covered with a dense confluence of fog and clouds, and the faint rays of moonlight no longer try to break through all this veil.

It's already a quarter past four in the morning, and the partner, then _still young_ and _especially beautiful_ Michael Townley, as usual, absolutely suddenly and without warning, for the third time in the last four hours, decides to go out for a smoke, not letting you fall asleep "Fuck, go away and don't come back, smoker!" Philips says after the brunette. "Just give me one night to sleep." On this day, they had a fight and Townley once again poured out a wave of negativity, imbued with selfishness. That is why all the immeasurable sympathy for Michael is trying to kill the feelings of anger and irritation, but they do not succeed. Philips forgave his friend again and again, even when he didn't try to apologize. A lovesick idiot who's had it this way for years.

Ahead of them is a serious raid on the Ludendorff Bank, and so Trevor is tormented by doubts about his best friend "I will not allow myself to forgive him if he disappears, I will not forgive you again, Michael, goddamn, Townley!" And all this wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been for the whore wife and her kids, Jim and Tracey. He could understand and forgive any wrong doing of this asshole, except for the desire to give all of himself to Amanda, who is only interested in money. After all, when Townley didn't give her any attention or a hundred dollars for a new dress, she just went under the first guy she saw. This bitch had no shame, no conscience, and even a cute face and a clear figure did not possess.

Putting on an old sheepskin coat, he leaves the room, not forgetting to grab a lighter. "Fuck, go away and don't come back, smoker! Just give me one night to sleep." These words fly after him from the mouth of his best friend. They hit hin in the back with bullets and leave a metallic taste in his mouth, but Michael just keeps silent in response. Yes, he knows that his presence is only ruining Trevor's life, yes, he knows that he is acting like an dumb asshole, but there is nothing he can do about it. Slamming the old and flimsy door, the handle of which is already difficult to close, he quickly descends the concrete stairs and goes to the exit of the building.

"Damn..." The whispered words come out in a cloud of steam. "Who the fuck puts so little gas in lighters?"

Squeaking his boots on the fresh and thin layer of snow, he tries to walk very quickly to the 24-hour supermarket. Neon signs and old, dirty, weakly shining lamps located only on the main streets are the only sources of light in the city. Michael takes out his wallet, which contains several ten-dollar bills and the most expensive thing he has at the moment — a photo of his children. The paper was already yellowed with age, with crumpled corners and paint smeared with water drops, and on it were six-year-old Tracey with shaggy pigtails from playing, and three-year-old Jimmy with a tearful face. Him heart felt warm, like after whiskey, and a faint smile appeared on his face. After looking at the photo for a few more seconds, he shoved it back into the small pocket of his wallet that was on the lock. For the sake of these small assholes who no longer put their poor dad in anything, he is ready to betray his best friend, the gang, give up the case. The first point has already been fulfilled — Mikey works with the FIB, and all for the sake of the well-being of the family or himself.

The doors to the store open, hitting the bells that hang above them. The bright cold light blinds the brunette, and the buzzing of the lamps is already beginning to irritate him. Of course, if you don't sleep for three days in a row, it will irritate any creature that makes the slightest sound. That's why they were fighting with Phillips. The latter only egged Townley on, and he flared up like a match and "splashed poison" for the rest of the day. The sarcasm that seemed harmless to Michael turned into a sharp knife that stabbed Trevor in the stomach, time after time, more and more painfully. Breathing becomes harder, the pulse quickens, the pain spreads throughout the body and the only desire at this moment is to get rid of this pain, even if to die to hell—it's still better than to endure it.

The dark-haired man goes to the alcohol counter, takes a bottle of strong Macbeth whiskey and a couple of cans of Pißwasser beer for a friend.

"That's 24 dollars and 50 cents," the cashier said in her unpleasant, somewhat squeaky voice, "something else?"

"Yeah, give me that lighter."

"That makes 28 dollars.

"Keep the change."

The man casually tossed three tens and quickly headed for the exit, taking all the bottles in his hands. The doors opened abruptly and gave Townley a completely different view of the city: the wind had died down and large flakes of snow were falling down. The clouds slowly parted, and now through the narrow gaps between them you could see the moon and an infinite number of stars. And after all, the only plus of this city is the night sky. An infinitely black abyss, because of which two feelings are fighting in the soul: admiration and fear. Neat splashes, like white paint on a black canvas—stars, and a large, slightly blurred light gray spot—the moon. 

The brunette walks into the room, trying not to make a noise, but as if to spite the bottles hit each other, "If only he didn't wake up..." the brunette whispers to himself, as if praying that this really did not happen.

"My ears hear everything, sweetheart! Where have you been for an hour, and since when has smoking become so long and exciting for you?"

"I bought you a beer, so..." 

"Wow, did our esteemed Mr. Townley decide to have a party on my street as well?" The meth addict interrupted his friend-lover in mid-sentence. "I wish you'd let me sleep, Mikey."

"You know all about it, T. So just get the fuck off from me and let me get away from this unholy world." Michael lit a cigarette, puffing smoke at the ceiling and holding the nicotine stick between his teeth as he started to open the whiskey. Philips simply snatched the beer out of his hand, removed the metal lid with the corner of the cabinet, and took a sip. The low-alcohol drink spilled down his throat.

Despite the meth addict's serious, even rather unfeeling gaze, all his hopes for the best were falling apart inside him, into small pieces of glass that were once again falling on the most open and unhealed wounds of his soul. If those unpleasant words hadn't come from Townley's mouth, Trevor would have slapped a walking irritant long ago. But Michael was the only exception for him, in absolutely every sense. Even if he was putting out steers on Trevor's hands, the latter would still be ready to kiss and hug him, to give him all his feelings to him, to give all of himself. And even if he, the brute, does not return...

Michael opens his eyes abruptly, trying to catch his breath. His whole body is covered in cold sweat, and his hands and feet are shaking. With his right hand, the brunette holds his own nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol in a tight grip. He takes it off the safety, puts the bolt in the extreme rear position, "Charged... What the hell?" before going to bed, the brunette always put the weapon in the far corner of the closet.

“...Again and again and again Townley finds himself in this filthy room. No matter how much he tries to get out, run away from there, find another place, all his life paths lead to this fucking number. He tries to fix his life, get rid of all the problems, ensure the safety of his family, but can only repeat a long-passed scenario, "Yes, Mandy, this is definitely the last case, everything will get better after it..." the only hope for a quiet life is a deal with the FIB. Yes, it was immoral for him to set up his team, maybe even lose it, but right now Townley's mind is only clouded by dreams of a mansion in Rockford hills...”

A faint gust of cold wind gently touches his rather neat neck, wide open shoulders and forearms, where the wounds from the recent shootout have not yet healed. Not tanned from the constant lack of sun, the skin is covered with goosebumps. A quick glance at the clock, the hands of which are slowly ticking: half past two. On the right, Trevor is snoring with his hands under his cheek. The young man never believed that this beloved psycho could look so calm and peaceful. Michael carefully gets out of bed and heads towards the small balcony, covering the long-haired man with a thin blanket. Replacing the gun with cigarettes and a massive lighter with a shiny metal case, he throws on the first jacket he sees and goes out on the balcony. Townley lights a cigarette, hoping the wind won't blow it out, and takes his first drag. The loose and warm fleece-lined sweatshirt smells pleasantly of Philips cologne and has a faint whiff of gunpowder mixed with the echoes of freshly planed pine planks. The soul becomes warm from good memories.

* * *

...The newly lit fire slightly burns the face of the guy throwing branches at it. Because of the emerald-green tops of the pines, going somewhere far up, you can see only fragments of the dark and seemingly endless starry sky. Despite the location of the city, one night in July warm and velvety. There is complete silence around, interrupted only by the crackling of wood and short dialogues. A faint and pleasant wind blows over the hot, slightly drunk and laughing young people sitting so unacceptably close to each other. They've known each other for five years, but it feels like they've lost track of time somewhere, and they've been together all their short lives. Random glances, touches that actually hide a huge closeness between these guys. Not far away is the dirty yellow tent that will be their bed for the night, and inside it is a sports bag, in which, under layers of newspapers, lie twenty-five thousands — the proceeds of their successful robbery.

"Mikey," Trevor sipped his beer and continued, "did you see the salesman's face?" When you came in, all important, in some kind of closed ski suit, started swaggering around with him, and then suddenly pointed a gun at him? It was hilarious."

"Of course, T, I somehow didn't laugh," the words of the brunette were accompanied by a light, but still radiantly happy smile, "and you still don't know what's the trick..."

"What are you talking about?" He didn't understand, what the fuck M talking about.

"The gun wasn't loaded, I was just lucky I didn't have to shoot this time." He followed Philips and took a swig of his beer.

"Townley! When did you become such a goof?" The long-haired man's tone wavered between surprise and indignation. "Fate could bend us and then your great charm and pathos phrases from movies, fuck, wouldn't have saved us!'

"T, it doesn't matter, it's over. But in spite of everything, I'll try not to let any more of this go wrong." He turned and looked Philips straight in the eye. "All for your, dear."

Trevor was very surprised by this unexpected movement and words, because he, absolutely without remorse, stared at Michael throughout their conversation, which lasted several hours. The alcohol had already significantly clouded both their minds, so they didn't even think about the consequences of saying.

"Have you been staring at me all this time?" Despite the complete indifference in Townley's eyes, his voice took on a new, slightly husky and deep sound that the meth addict had never heard before. "No shame, no conscience, T."

"You're right again, Townley." Trevor said, beginning to be drawn to his partner like a magnet. "But there's one more detail."

"What's that, Trevor?" In the dark it was obvious that he flirts, is very evident. His eyes, the color of which was like transparent blue ice that seemed to melt with nothing, flashed with a twinkle of interest... passion?

"It's impossible not to stare at you, Mikey." Philips, obviously embarrassed, gently touched the alluring and much-desired lips. Quickly, as if trying to catch up to the moment when Michael decides to pull away from him. But there was no return from the lover — he did not continue the kiss, but also broke it off. Townley was just trying to understand the feeling, to understand Trevor's intentions. Feel the taste of his lips, the warmth of his breath, just as the world froze for both of them. But Trevor pulled away.

"I'm so sorry, Mike..." He tried to keep his eyes away from the object of his sighing, so that the latter would not see his cheeks, which were red with embarrassment.

"T, wait," Michael took the other person by the chin and quietly turned back to himself, "don't turn away from me. It's all right, don't worry..."

* * *

The thin cigarette in the frost-reddened hand had already turned into a cigarette butt. "How long the fuck have I been standing here?" The hands of a worn watch stolen from his father about ten years ago show exactly three o'clock in the morning. "Well, fuck it, I'll go back and try to sleep." He threw the bull down and trudged into the room, shuffling half-worn slippers. Trevor was still sleeping as soundly as he had when the dark-haired man left. Taking off his sweatshirt, he lay down on the frozen half of the bed and turned away from Philips, trying to sleep.

The day of the robbery is crucial for Michael, but absolutely ordinary for Trevor and, what's this guy's name? Brad? Probably, although in other ways it didn't interest Townley — they didn't get along with the characters from the first meeting. The main thing is that he will definitely be dead after Davey hits him. But with Trevor, it's much more complicated... Was a fourteen-year friendship worth what he would get? Everyone has their own answer to this, and it is impossible to deduce the correct one. But if there's only one door ahead, as Michael thinks, there's no point in going back. 

"Trev?" Philips was lying on the bed, enjoying a beer.

"What?" He addict wasn't even going to turn his head in the direction of the other person.

"Are we all set? Team, weapons, everything packed? I have no chance of failure."

"You're too fucking selfish, again, turned everything on..."

"Just answer my goddamn question, Philips. You won't believe it, but there's nothing complicated about it." Michael's face grows darker and more serious with each word.

"I'm not going to continue this conversation until you apologize, you son bitch's son." He did this on purpose. For what? And this is already unknown, because we aren't given to understand this person. Townley flushes again, but instead of yelling at Trevor or slapping him, he quickly walks around the bed, sits on the edge of his friend's side, and abruptly pulls his face down to his own. A few seconds of serious and reproachful gaze into the vast black eyes with a tint of amber — and the brunette bites into the lips of Philips. No one has ever kissed him so unceremoniously and brazenly, while giving all their feelings and all their passion. Even prostitutes, which he paid a lot of money for, as it turned out — absolutely free services from his subject of sighs.

Everything around this couple freezes again, they are left completely alone, as in that time—out of space and time. Bright sun rays fall on Trevor's face, revealing the beauty of every millimeter of his face before the eyes of his beloved. Fair skin with almost no wrinkles or wounds, except for one that Michael had treated in their joint robbery. Thick, even, and the same brown eyebrows as the young man's hair itself. Most importantly, these lips, almost merging with the skin, a little chapped and with an eternal metallic taste — nothing has changed since that day. After a few seconds, Michael breaks away from Trevor.

"Please forgive me, T." The icy gaze becomes distressed and sad, waiting for at least some support from the interlocutor.

"Mikey," Trevor said, looking as if he had already found out all the secrets of his lover, but still forgives him, " I've forgiven you every time, and I have absolutely no regrets. I'll forgive you now too." A faint but genuine smile, with a hint of relief, appears on Townley's lips.

* * *

They are already running to the helicopter, with money in their bags, somehow breaking away from the main chase, thinking that everything will go well. The sun is out on the street, huge snowdrifts are shining, which were far from appropriate during the run. There are no clouds in the light blue sky. And there is only one "but" in this beautiful day — air transport didn't appear. All three of them, trying to hide behind the crates... the sound of a gunshot, and Brad is already lying on the frozen ground, covered with a thick layer of ice. "Everything is going according to plan." Townley runs to the body, trying to drag it to cover. Another thud—a direct hit of a bullet in Michael's heart.

_He had only twenty seconds left to realize that everything had gone wrong. Dave missed._

Philips runs up to him, not even trying to hide. "MIKEY, FUCK!" Tries to slap Townley lightly on the cheek to bring him to his senses, but he can't even do that, because his hands are shaking like a wet aspen leaf, his voice is hoarse, and the tears are flowing from his eyes in an endless stream, not allowing him to see fully and falling directly on Michael's face,

"I t-told you, don't you dare d-die, you're fucking asshole, wh... why did you run to him?!" In response, Michael, who is ten seconds away from death, can only whisper two words.

"Run, T." The time for parting is over — Michael tilts his head and closes his eyes.

"SHOOT ME TOO, MOTHERFUCKER, WHOEVER YOU ARE!" The cry, coming not so much from the throat, but from the soul, reverberates throughout the neighborhood. A minute passes, and the shot never sounds. Then, desperate, having lost almost all the meaning of his life, Trevor grabs someone's gun lying in the snow. The cold muzzle of the gun touches the right temple. He pulls the trigger. Another deafening shot — Philips' body is lying in a pool of red blood right next to Michael's...


End file.
